The Spinster and the Duke Read Online Free PDF Page B

different time and a different place where she wasn’t mute with shock and wet as a drowned rat.
    “Abby, take my hand and get in the carriage. It’s raining.”
    She blinked up at him, spilling water down her cheeks. “No thank you,” she managed. “I believe I would like to walk.”
    “Walk?” Beneath the brim of his topper hat Reginald’s achingly familiar eyes, their piercing blue color as familiar as his voice, narrowed. “Do not be ridiculous. Get in the carriage before you catch a chill. You should not be out in this weather.”
    Abigail’s mouth thinned. She had been ordered about one too many times already today, and she was quite tired of being told what to do as though she were a mindless puppy who could not think for itself. If she wanted to walk in the rain she would damn well walk in the rain and no one – not even Reginald Browning – could stop her. Pushing back her shoulders and turning on her heel, she began to do just that.
    “Abby, what are you doing? Abby? ABIGAIL!”
    “I am walking home,” she shouted. Her wet skirts slapped at her legs and her boots squished with water, the thin leather no doubt ruined beyond repair. Still she continued on, her chin tilted at a stubborn angle and her gaze pinned straight ahead. Perhaps it was not the most mature thing a woman of her age could do – heaven forbid if anyone of consequence saw her stomping away from a carriage in the pouring rain like some half brained fool – but her mind was too rattled to think of anything else.
    Reginald had truly returned. He was here . In London. Not only that, but he’d come for her at the first available opportunity. She supposed it could have been coincidence that found him driving down the very street she was walking up, but Abigail was not a woman prone to believe in coincidences. Everything, fair or foul, happened for a reason.
    She heard the carriage following her – the quiet rumble of wheels on cobblestone, the squeak of wet leather and jingle of harness – but pride kept her from turning around even when the rain intensified, soaking her through to the skin. She was shivering by the time she reached her front door, the combination of nerves, adrenaline, and cold proving too much for her body to handle.
    Fingers trembling, she inserted the key into the lock and stumbled into the foyer, trailing water in her wake. Closing the door she leaned weakly against it, her breath coming in bits and starts as her heart threatened to leap right out of her chest.
    Before she could collect her thoughts or even catch her breath there was a sudden pounding at the door, so fierce in nature it rattled the hinges. With a little gasp she spun around and stared wide eyed at the knob as it twisted this way and that in a futile attempt to open.
    “Abby, I wish to speak with you.” Reginald’s deep baritone voice rumbled through the wood.
    Hearing the familiar timbre caused Abigail’s stomach to flutter even as she took a wary step in retreat. She was not prepared for this. Not ready for it. She needed time to collect her thoughts and practice what she wanted to say. A year or two would (most likely) suffice. “I am not receiving callers.”
    Something thudded against the door – his palm or his forehead, she could not be sure – before he said, “Abby, please. Open the door so we can speak face to face.”
    “I am not receiving callers,” she repeated.
    “Bloody… When will you be receiving callers?”
    “I do not know,” she replied honestly. “Perhaps tomorrow, or the day after.”
    “The day after ?” There was a long pause, and then: “Abby?”
    “I am nodding.”
    Another thud, softer this time, followed by a long sigh. “You are aware I cannot see you through the door?”
    Her cheeks burned crimson. “Of course. Come back another time, Reginald. I am, er, very busy.”
    “I will wait outside in my carriage until you change your mind.”
    “You could be waiting for a very long time.”
    Another